


Deflowered

by TheManicMagician



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (technically vines but you get the idea), Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Fontcest, M/M, Sex Pollen, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9489911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: Papyrus is his favorite, and as such is the first to partake in each new experiment of Flowey’s. Papyrus was the first he befriended. The first he killed. And now, the first to try out…this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Askellie (NadaNine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/gifts).



> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).

Flowey emerges from the ground a few feet behind Papyrus’ sentry station. He takes a moment to make his appearance presentable, shaking dust free from his petals, spitting out clumps of grit that managed to lodge their way past the thorns of his teeth. Traveling underground is a constant annoyance, but it’s the most expedient way to navigate.

Papyrus is oblivious to his presence. He chews on the nub of a pencil eraser as he works on a junior jumble puzzle. One leg jiggles idly while he thinks, knocking against the reinforced cardboard counter of his makeshift sentry station.

Flowey suppresses the urge to giggle. Even dutiful, guard-wannabe Papyrus falls prey to boredom.

He knows all about boredom. Forever teetering near it, he does everything he can think of to skirt its edge. Papyrus, his favorite, is usually his first in each new experiment. Papyrus was the first he befriended. The first he killed.

And now, the first to try out… _this_.

One of his vines sprouts forth from the ground. Unlike the others, this vine is wreathed in blooming white flowers, carefully coaxed forth to fruition with magic and determination.

He inches the vine closer and closer to Papyrus, until it rests right by his boots in the snow, and settles in to wait. The light breeze is sure to pick up the fragrant scent of the flowers—and their pollen.

The change is gradual. Several minutes pass as Papyrus continues to work on his puzzle, scribbling a few options in the margin of the page.

Then he starts to squirm.

He wriggles and rocks on the stool. The wood creaks softly with his constant shifting. Papyrus’ hand lowers below the station, but then he jerks it back up again to rest on the counter.

Flowey leers. Is he trying to fight the pollen’s affects? How adorably stupid of him.

Despite Papyrus’ initial refusal, in minutes his hand sneaks its way back down below, palming at the front of his briefs.

“N-Nyeh…” Papyrus’ breath steams in the cold air.

He starts lifting his hips, raising his pelvis up to press against his hand. His phalanges stroke up and down, pushing against the fabric, trying to go deeper.

Papyrus’ gaze darts furtively to the right and left, towards the two sentry stations on either side of him. Unlike Papyrus, Flowey has the benefit of knowing neither sentry will be coming to check on Papyrus any time soon. The trashbag is slacking off from work—what else is new—holed up at Grillby’s for the remainder of his shift. And Doggo took the day off to make a trip to New Home to replenish his supply of dog treats. No one will be coming to look for Papyrus; not unless Flowey wants them to.

After assuring himself that he is in fact, alone, Papyrus slips his hand beneath the blue briefs. He moans at the sensation, and instantly freezes, looking around. All is still, quiet. Emboldened, Papyrus moves his hand in earnest, his breath growing ragged.

Flowey watches the fidgeting skeleton. He can’t see much from this angle, this distance. Is he stroking his pelvis? No, it’s not the scrape of bone on bone he hears, but something distinctly wet. Flowey wants to see what he’s doing.

Papyrus lets out a startled yelp as a thick vine wraps around his eye sockets, blinding him to the other approaching vines. Flowey loops the vines twice over every limb—he knows from experience that Papyrus can put up a hell of a fight.

“What’s going on?” He’s loud, far too loud. Even with the two nearest sentries gone, there are still others to worry about if Papyrus continues to shout at such a volume. Papyrus struggles in his new bonds, his magic buzzing as he prepares to counterattack. “Are you a human? Is this one of your tricks? I, the Great Papyrus, will not—”

“Shut up.” He lifts the flower vine and forces it past Papyrus’ teeth. Thick gobs of nectar slide down Papyrus’ throat, greedily snapped up and digested by his magic.

The change is instantaneous. Papyrus’ thrashing ends, his body growing lax, pliant. He suckles at the vine, trying to coax more and more from it. Any thought of fighting, or trying to escape, has completely fled his mind.

Flowey tugs Papyrus away from his sentry station, away from the main road, a little further back into the woods. He keeps Papyrus’ body spread-eagle, for his inspection. He yanks off Papyrus’ briefs, and shreds the spandex covering his pelvis. The remains of the black bodysuit hang in scraps around Papyrus’ legs.

A shimmering mound of magic has formed between Papyrus’ legs, wet and dripping. So _that’s_ how it works for skeleton monsters. Flowey had his theories, but wasn’t sure. A thin vine slithers up, and prods at the ectoflesh cautiously. Papyrus shudders, canting his hips up towards the vine. How interesting. This manifestation of magic is clearly tied to Papyrus, just like the tongue he’s using to lick at the vine shoved in his mouth. Flowey wonders what else he can get Papyrus to form for him.

But first, Papyrus is still wearing far too much for his taste. How is he to see anything with all this stuff in the way? The top is next to go. A crude imitation of real armor, it’s in shreds of scrap metal in the space of a moment. Flowey slices off the spandex covering the top half of his body, exposing Papyrus’ spine, his rib cage.

Vines thread through each individual rib, squeezing, feeling. Flowey glances up at Papyrus’ face, to gauge his expression. Papyrus looks blissed out, moaning appreciatively at Flowey’s every touch, a warm blush on his face. He continues imbibing the syrup-sweet nectar. A taste of it would have any monster spreading their legs. To have it poured down his mouth for an hour will be enough to drive all sense of reason and rationality from Papyrus’ mind.

Flowey returns his attention to the glimmering wetness between Papyrus’ legs. He raises up a vine—thick, bulbous—and pushes it inside.

Papyrus is slippery-smooth; the vine enters easily. Flowey is fascinated by how the orange magic molds around the intrusion. How much can it withstand?

Flowey shoves the vine in deeper, prompting muffled protests from Papyrus around the vine wedged in his mouth. Papyrus’ magic stretches to accommodate, but now the vine fits snugly through Papyrus’ pelvic inlet.

Flowey hesitates, but only for a second; he’ll reset and erase any lasting damage, anyway. He thrusts the vine in deeper. Papyrus’ body strains to let the too-large vine pass through, but even though the haze of pleasure Flowey has him under, Papyrus is whimpering, pained.

“Come on, Papyrus, just a little more…”

The vine pushes the cushion of magic up, up, past his pelvis entirely, reaching the base of his spine.

“Golly, you can take a lot, can’t you?”

He nudges a little further, but Papyrus thrashes, biting into the vine in his mouth. If he keeps that up, he’ll ruin the flowers Flowey had so painstakingly prepared for this moment. Reluctantly, he halts his push forward; he doesn’t want the thin layer of magic to tear.

Flowey withdraws the vine completely, leaving the tip resting against his outer folds. Of course, now that he’s taken it away, Papyrus wants it back inside him. He wiggles his hips, trying to plunge back down onto the vine. The restraints wrapped around his limbs keep him mostly stationary, unable to sheath the vine inside him again. Tears of frustration well in Papyrus’ eye sockets, spill down the sides of his skull.

Well, Flowey would hate to disappoint him. He pistons the vine in and out at an unrelenting speed, making Papyrus bounce with the force of it. Papyrus feels wet, hot, the walls of his magic hugging the vine tightly.

Flowey chuckles. This is actually…fun? Papyrus is less annoying than usual, for sure. No pleading for him to reform, to be the good person Papyrus “knows” he can be. There’s satisfaction in knowing that if Flowey allowed him to speak, Papyrus would just be begging to be pounded even harder.

Flowey slithers his way upwards until he’s right by Papyrus’ skull. The ends of his petals tickle his cheek. Papyrus flinches at the unexpected brush of contact, tilting his head towards Flowey, even though he still can’t see or speak past the vines.

“I want to make you feel good, Papyrus. I know you have to have more tricks than just _this_ —” Flowey punctuates his statement with a brutal thrust inside him. “—so show me already. Give me something else to play with.”

Flowey slows his pace down to languid, small pushes inside Papyrus. His heaving, desperate gasps for air settle as the sluggish speed gives him a chance to recover.

“Show me what else you can do. _Show me_.” He’s growing impatient.

Finally— _finally_ —magic thrums through Papyrus’ body. Flowey’s vines disentangle from their snarl in his chest, from all but his bottommost ribs, letting the magic coalesce unimpeded, swelling to form breasts. Magic gathers at his pelvis as well, forming a second hole for Flowey to penetrate.

Flowey whistles appreciatively. “I knew you had it in you, Papyrus.”

Flowey resumes his assault. The slow pace of the vine shoved inside Papyrus picks up speed again. Flowey spreads the globes of Papyrus’ ass open enough for another thick vine to plunge inside. Papyrus shudders as the two vines inside him push in and out alternate each other; he is never left completely empty.

Vines curl around his breasts next, squeezing the voluminous mounds. Smaller tendrils wrap around the already-pert nipples. Papyrus jerks and writhes with every slight tug; they must be sensitive. Can he get them to lactate? Flowey tweaks the nipples hard.

Papyrus tenses, and with a muffled scream of pleasure he orgasms. Hot liquid magic drips out of his pussy, adding to the slickness of the vine already inside him.

Flowey wishes the vines could reciprocate, his breath picking up at the thought of Papyrus stuffed full with cum, dumped in the middle of Snowdin for all to see how much of a greedy whore the youngest resident skeleton is. The nectar he’s used to induce Papyrus’ arousal wouldn’t suffice. The substance is too akin to molasses; thick, slow. Pumping Papyrus full of it would take _forever_ , and he doesn’t have the patience for it right now. He’ll have to look into producing a special sap for the next time he tries this.

For now, though…he has another idea.

As he keeps the majority of his vines focused on pumping, stroking, squeezing, he sends one vine back over to the heap of Papyrus’ clothes. It digs through the fabric until locating its prize—Papyrus’ cell phone.

Flowey scrolls through the pathetically small contact list to locate the smiley trashbag’s number, and dials. As it rings, Papyrus’ second climax rocks through him. Normally a monster would be sensitive after cuming, but Papyrus either doesn’t feel that way or doesn’t care; he continues to buck desperately against the vines thrusting inside of him.

“’sup, bro?” Sans’ voice is drowsy, barely hearable over the clinking of glasses and background chatter of the bar.

“Not your brother, trashbag. But I do have him right here.” Flowey pauses, letting Sans hear Papyrus’ muffled whimpers, hear the slap and squelch of rough sex.

Sans’ sleepy, warm tone becomes cold and hard in an instant. “Who the fuck are you.”

“Sans!” Flowey gasps. “Such _language._ Do you kiss your brother with that mouth?”

“I swear, if you’ve hurt him—”

“No no no, I haven’t hurt him at all. I’ve shown him a good time. Let’s ask Papyrus how he feels about it.”

Flowey finally removes the flower-covered vine from Papyrus’ mouth. Sticky strings of sap dribble down his chin. Papyrus keens at the loss of the steady stream of nectar, blindly searching for it, eager to suckle again on its heady taste.

“Focus, Papyrus.” Flowey pushes the cell phone near him, so it picks up on his choppy, ragged breathing. “Your big brother Sans needs to know how you’re feeling right now.”

“Mmn, ah, m-more…please, please, I need more, so—hnng—so good, _oh_!” Papyrus wails through another orgasm. His body trembles with exhaustion, but his pussy and ass continue to twitch around Flowey, needing more still.

Flowey brings the phone back to him, hovering a few inches away from it to avoid the drool Papyrus got on the receiver.

“Better hurry, trashbag, or I’ll fuck him dry before you get here.”

The vine grasping the cell phone tightens until the plastic snaps and breaks. He tosses the useless components away.

“There, r-right there, please, oh please…” Papyrus continues to beg, even though Flowey hasn’t slowed his jackhammer pace in some time. Flowey largely ignores him, considers gagging him again—but no. Let Sans hear how undone his brother has become.

The smiley trashbag isn’t completely stupid. One of the first places he’ll check will be exactly where he left him. After reaching Papyrus’ makeshift sentry station, it won’t be too difficult to follow Flowey’s tracks, deeper into the forest.

Papyrus had been ensnared easily, caught unawares. Sans will charge full throttle into the clearing in a matter of minutes; if Flowey wants to trap him as well, some measure of planning is required. Fortunately, he’s had several runs to experiment: he knows exactly how to target him.

Flowey burrows underground, and resurfaces several feet back, by the tree line and out of obvious sight. It’ll hurt faintly if the vines he’s using on Papyrus are cut, but as long as his main stem is protected, he doesn’t have to worry about resetting and losing all the progress he’s made so far. He also tucks the nectar vine out of sight, feeding magic to the flowers, readying them for their second target.

Sans doesn’t keep him waiting; soon there’s a crackle of magical discharge from closer to the main road, and then the sound of footsteps hurrying through the slush.

He comes into view. His eye sockets are hollow, his body trembling with rage. The trashbag has come alone, just as he predicted. If he had enlisted the assistance of that bartender, Flowey would have been supremely put out. He’s drowned out Grillby’s flame before and he’ll do it again, but fire elementals always give him such trouble; plant matter and fire magic don’t work well together. But Sans bullishly charged out here, told no one what was happening. No one would be coming to save either of the brothers—Sans’ self-reliance will be their undoing.

“Papyrus, oh god—” Sans tugs at the vines, trying to pull them off of Papyrus.

Flowey lets the vine around Papyrus’ eye sockets at last slip off, so he can witness his would-be savoir. Papyrus squints, readjusting to light once more. His eye lights brighten as his gaze finds his brother.

“S-Sans?”

“It’s gonna be okay, bro—I’ll get you out of here right now, alright?”

Sans summons a small, pointed bone. He hacks at the vine wrapped around Papyrus’ arm. The fibers are thick, tough; he saws against the bindings but makes little progress.

Flowey pumps inside of Papyrus, feeling him build closer and closer to climax. But as he stiffens, quivers around the vines inside him, Flowey withdraws both of them entirely, letting them fall to the ground with a wet splat.

“Nuh-No…” Papyrus whines, squirming with frustration. The little whore.

“Hold still, Paps, I can’t—I can’t cut you down if you keep moving.”

“It burns, s-so bad.” Papyrus rocks, hungry for friction. “Sah—Sans, I need it, please, it burns!”

“Pap, you’ve gotta calm down.”

Electric blue magic sparks in Sans’ left eye socket. There’s a quick sound, like the chime of a bell, and Papyrus’ soul is frozen blue, hovering above his chest. Papyrus’ body is forced to still as Sans keeps him pinned with blue magic. Sans cuts into the vine with renewed fervor.

Several vines coiled by Papyrus’ chest shoot towards his exposed soul. With a cold precision, hundreds of jagged bones pierce the tendrils, pinning them to the ground.

Flowey’s true goal was never to snatch Papyrus’ soul—it was a distraction, so Sans would not spot the vine snaking its way towards his ankle.

Infuriatingly, he notices. Flowey is just about to grab him when Sans is abruptly five feet away. The vine curls around empty air, right as Sans releases his hold on his brother’s soul.

Flowey’s teeth grind. The trashbag’s trick is one of the few magical attacks that forces a monster’s soul to physically manifest. His one chance to experiment with the nectar’s affect after direct contact with the soul is gone in an instant. He forcefully pushes his irritation down. He can experiment with that at another time. What’s important now is subduing Sans.

Flowey laughs loudly, his voice reverberating around the clearing. Sans whirls, trying to place the source.

“I thought you wanted to help your brother. Isn’t that why you came here?” Flowey gives Papyrus a shake for emphasis. “Now you’re just going to let him suffer?”

Papyrus is fidgeting again, begging for someone to touch him. The vines wrapped around him have ceased movement; Flowey needs to focus.

Vines shoot up from the ground at various angles, all heading straight for Sans. He dodges and weaves; summons a blaster to incinerate ten of them in an instant. Flowey barely flinches, the pain distant. Another vine worms into his slipper, but Sans teleports away, leaving the shoe behind.

“Heh. Nice try, buddy—”

Sans stills as he’s suddenly face to face with the flower-covered vine.

“You _idiot_.”

A burst of pollen is shot right at Sans’ face, the sticky residue coating his teeth, drifting through his nose and eye sockets to settle inside his skull. He staggers backwards, pressing his hands to his face. Phalanges claw through his sockets, trying to get at the pollen before it can set, but he’s already too late.

“Wh…What?” Sans pants.

Vines grab him and force him roughly down, shoving his face into the snow. His jacket and shirt are hiked up, exposing the soft blue bulge of his stomach. His shorts are torn off, revealing—

Oh, this is too good. The trashbag has already formed an ass and dick. Flowey dives down into the ground and resurfaces in front of Sans, beaming up at him.

“Golly, trashbag, the pollen doesn’t work _that_ fast. Don’t tell me your brother’s pleas for you to fuck him got you all hot and bothered.” Flowey sneers. “You’re disgusting.”

Speaking of Sans’ brother, now that Sans has been defanged, he has attention to spare. He fills Papyrus’ holes once more. Papyrus hums with glee, grinding down enthusiastically onto the vines.

Flowey lifts Sans’ head, making him stare at his little slut of a brother.

“Look how eager he is. Hard to believe your little brother was a virgin before today, isn’t it?” Flowey gets in Sans’ face. “Are you jealous that I took his first time?”

Sans says nothing. His cheekbones are flushed, his tongue lolling from his mouth—but there’s still a glimmer of resistance in his eyes.

Without warning or preparation, Flowey plunges a vine deep into his ass. Sans yelps, his body trying to squeeze out the intruding force.

“Ahn! Y-You—you fucker.” The growl becomes a whine halfway through.

This is just a necessary step, a means to an end. Flowey wastes no time with niceties. He fucks Sans hard, like a dog, until drool is spilling from his mouth and he’s lost coherency. Sans’ precum seeps onto the snow, his swollen erection pressing against the curve of his stomach. A vine encircles the base of his dick, denying him the orgasm. Sans moans in displeasure, hands fisting uselessly in the snow.

Flowey rearranges the brothers, manhandling them like a child would with their dolls. Papyrus is lowered to the ground, and Sans is seated atop him. Flowey pushes together Papyrus’ breasts, forming a valley for Sans’ pleasure. The vines guide Sans’ cock to nestle between the breasts, but then retreat. The vine at the base of his erection unfurls as well. Now the only thing stopping Sans from climaxing are any shreds of willpower he has left.

Papyrus is beyond any such shame. He strains his neck forward, tongue flitting out, and just barely brushes the tip of Sans’ erection with his tongue. Sans groans, but visibly keeps himself from moving.

“Aw, look at him. You’re going to deny a face like that?” Flowey’s voice drops to an exact mimic of Sans’ own low drawl. “Papyrus wants this so bad, and I’m going to give it to him.”

Sans crumbles. He bucks forward, cock pushing between the soft swells of Papyrus’ magic. The head of his dick peeks out from between Papyrus’ breasts; Papyrus takes it upon himself to kiss the tip, smearing a bit of Sans’ precum on his face.

“S-Shit, Paps.” Sans’ hand squeezes Papyrus’ breast, pinches the pert nipple as his cock slides back and forth through the warm magic. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

With a throaty moan Sans cums. His semen splashes up, coating Papyrus’ face, sticking to the curves of his breasts.

Papyrus licks up the cum with swipes of his tongue. He savors the taste, rolling the cum around in his mouth before swallowing. Sans pats his face clumsily.

“So hot, Paps. You’re so hot, so beautiful—”

“Sans, please, I need it inside me—cum inside me Sans, please—”

Flowey giggles to himself. These two are certainly going to have a lot to discuss tomorrow. For now, though, he’ll give them both what they want.

He pulls Sans away from Papyrus momentarily. Both whine at the loss of direct contact.

Flowey withdraws the vines in Papyrus’ holes. The ectoflesh is raw, stretched. But the slick left behind from Papyrus’ orgasms has kept his pussy shiny and well-lubed. The vines wrapped around Papyrus’ ankles spread his legs open wide. They then pull Papyrus’ legs up towards his head, until they’re almost parallel to his body.

Flowey steers Sans back to Papyrus. He needs no prompting this time, not with Papyrus so wonderfully splayed out for him. He grips Papyrus by the hips and sinks all the way to the hilt. The girth of Sans’ cock is smaller than the vine that previously occupied that space had been, but Papyrus certainly doesn’t seem to mind. Faint, breathy moans escape his mouth at every thrust. He digs furrows into the snow, raking at the dirt beneath.

Flowey loosens the vines around Sans’ limbs, just to see what will happen. Sans doesn’t notice, chasing his release, consumed with the need to see Papyrus undone.

“Pap—Papyrus—”

“Oh, Sans—”

Sans floods Papyrus full of cum. The sensation is more than enough for Papyrus to be sent over the edge as well, their cries mingling through their orgasms.

Sans bends down to kiss Papyrus, who meets him halfway. Is the pollen blinding them to their actions? Or has Flowey unwittingly discovered repulsive, repressed romantic attraction between the two of them? Papyrus is largely friendless, his quirks off-putting to most. Would he latch onto the one person that shows him affection in his desperation? That, Flowey could believe, but the idea that smiley trashbag had been harboring some illicit feelings for his little brother all this time…well. It certainly gives Flowey a fresh perspective on Sans’ choice to drink himself stupid and avoid spending time home with Papyrus.

Flowey releases them both, entirely. Sans surges towards Papyrus, but doesn’t teleport them away. Instead, he takes one of Papyrus’ breasts in his mouth, his tongue rolling against the nipple. Papyrus’ legs twine around Sans’ back, pulling them flush together. Clearly they have no intention of leaving any time soon.

Flowey settles in to wait. They continue to fuck like mindless dogs for nearly an hour more. Sans passes out from exhaustion first—unsurprisingly—still buried inside his brother. Papyrus ruts mindlessly against his brother until two more orgasms are enough to make him white out, collapsing atop his brother.

Only now does Flowey approach them again to survey his handiwork. Both are debauched, their clothing in tatters. Various fluids dry on their exposed bones.

Flowey considers resetting. As he watched the two of them and regenerated vines that had been severed, he came up with several alternatives he would try in the next reset; he is still curious about the affect the pollen would have on the soul upon direct contact, for one.

But he holds off for the moment. Where will the brothers go from here? Will they try to salvage their relationship? Split apart? Whatever the answer, it will be something new.

Flowey dives back under the soil. And waits.


End file.
